


stains

by lanfan



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanfan/pseuds/lanfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Despite Ja’far being nearly seventeen, Sinbad had always thought the boy small. Now, he looks old; aged and far, far from Sinbad’s reach.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	stains

**Author's Note:**

> i like to think about the awful moments that must've happened while making Sindria the country it is. while Ja'far is a stellar adviser, he is also an assassin and one doesn't keep an assassin in their counsel without ever using him. 
> 
> some of the info regarding the man is vague because since SNB is a thing, I felt strange writing specifics for young Sinbad and Ja'far's journey.

Sinbad thinks he might be sick. 

He can only ever remember feeling this ill twice in his life before now: the first time he found his mother, passed away in her own bed, and the subsequent night after, filled with liquor and heavy perfume. However, watching Ja’far meticulously wash the blood from his hands, he can feel himself shaking. He tries to compose himself to some semblance of normal -- live up his title, Sinbad of the Seven Seas -- but instead can’t stop staring at Ja'far's hands. 

Ja’far pretends not to notice and continues scrubbing, digging deep under his fingernails. 

“Please stop looking at me while you’re going to start crying,” he says after a heavy silence, letting out a small sigh and reaching over to grab a towel. Sinbad nods mutely, letting his eyes slide away from the stained sink to stare outside the hotel room. The streets look bright even this far past midnight, lights strung across the cobblestone and the weight of humidity pressing down on his already damp clothing. Sinbad can't remember the name of this place and doesn’t plan on asking; happy to wash away the bad memories for another day. The tension hangs suspended between them, tipping over only on his side.

“How did it go?”

Normal questions. He could handle that.

“Too easy,” Ja’far shrugs, slipping out of his tunic and trousers, modesty lost after so many years of sharing the same quarters. Sinbad doesn't even have the energy to look up and observe. “I thought it’d actually present a challenge, what with how much security he always boasted about.” 

“How many?” Ja'far knows Sinbad doesn't want to know, not really. He folds his clothing and slips it under the bed with the practiced ease of someone who is used to picking up after people.

“No one saw me. The ones that did, aren't around to talk about it. The important thing is that he’s not a problem anymore; we’ll be sailing by morning.” Sinbad can almost forget they were talking about people with the say Ja’far sounded, cool and quiet. And yet, people were dead because his hand gave the signal. He clenches his fists and then carefully unravels each of his fingers, as if testing out the motion. Ja’far wipes off his daggers and gently places them into a wooden box; keeping his wires wrapped around his arms. Sinbad can't find it in him to lie back in bed like he'd been before the younger boy had arrived, unaffected and languid, belly full with the comfort of bitter wine.

“I’m sorry.” 

Ja’far looks up from his careful handle of the sharp edges of his blades, eyes wide. “What’d you do?” 

Those words light a fire in his chest and without thinking, Sinbad reaches for Ja'far and yanks him close to his chest. The warmth is suffocating but it feels like home, like long nights spent pouring over trade routes instead of this uphill climb through bone dust and diplomacy. Ja’far still feels soft and smooth under his fingertips and with his back turned, Sinbad can’t see the cold look in his eyes when he spoke of his success, the lilt in his voice sounding detached and foreign. Sounding like something that is not his. 

“I shouldn’t have sent you to kill him.”

“Well, that’s a stupid thing to say.” Ja’far's voice raises in pitch, furrowing his eyebrows. Despite him being nearly seventeen, Sinbad had always thought the boy small. Now, he looks old; aged and far, far from Sinbad’s reach. “I’m an assassin; I was clearly the best person for the job.”  
“But I pulled you out of that life, you’re not an assassin anymore—“

“I don’t think I can exactly stop,” Ja’far snaps, elbows sticking out in an effort to escape. Sinbad knows better than to keep latching on once Ja’far starts squirming and so, releases his arms. The younger boy almost jumps back, landing on the comforter and tucking his feet as if taking a defensive position. Sinbad tries not to look too hard at his frown. “I'm happy to be of use, finally. I feel restless sometimes just sitting around, talking about trade and politics.”

Sinbad stays silent after that, the noise from the downstairs tavern punctuating the air with laughter that seems almost morbid to him. The coil in his stomach grows with each passing thought: was he really any better than Ja’far’s own ex-troupe, spending a child to do his dirty work? Letting Ja'far continue to stain his hands with the very profession Sinbad had condemned when he was a child, just so he could have a sound alibi when one of his enemies came pounding on his door? Was it proof of his growing ambition, which kept him awake at night, always planning, that he had come to realize Ja'far was truly the prime assassin? No one would suspect the quiet boy by his side, who faded into the shadows like smoke, of killing six men and returning unscathed. 

“The fact that you’re worried just proves you’re nothing like them,” Ja'far's voice rings out, forcing Sinbad out of his thoughts with a shove. “I know that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’re my friend.” Maybe Hinahoho was right; maybe he should’ve dropped Ja’far off at a school when he was younger. Allowed him to lead a simple but safe life instead of keeping him tied to a life he only followed for Sinbad (because he knew it; as much as Ja’far would grow to love his country, he would always be following Sinbad, not the island). 

“I know that,” Ja’far huffs, pushing the older boy away when he tries to come closer, sitting beside him. “You’re not making any sense. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I didn’t want to do it.”

“I just…want you to know you always have the choice to leave. Whenever you’d like.” Sinbad isn’t sure he’d let Ja’far walk away from him, if it came down to that. 

“Well I knew that; I could easily flip you by your stupid pony tail if I wanted to go,” Ja’far sniffs, pulling himself up with a huff. “Can we sleep now? I’m exhausted.” 

Sinbad watches him, lips quirked up in a wary grin, before taking Ja’far by the hair and kissing him. The boy makes a small noise of irritation but concedes, allowing hands to roam and tongues to slip past his chapped lips. He tells himself that Sinbad needs this, especially now, but he knows by his shaking fingers that this is all he can do to keep from scratching at his skin. The feeling of slick blood on his fingertips lingers, reminding him of long days with hooded men tracing loyalty into his thighs. He had forgotten just how much he reveled in the efficiency, the sweet feeling of success before the weight of death sunk into his shoulders. He remembers crying but they had never been his own tears, only the trails of countless victims as they let out muffled screams, interrupted by his blade hacking away at skin, that pleaded for the lives of not themselves, but their wife, their children. Then, it hadn't matter to him at all. Some had called him gifted; some, cursed. 

Sinbad calls him neither and that was enough.


End file.
